


The Adventure of the Empty Man

by Eternal



Category: Saiko Pasu | Psycho Pass, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-26
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal/pseuds/Eternal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock systematically burns out the remnants of Moriarty's empire in Japan. Impeded by Sibyl, Oracle's sister system, hounded by Moran and taunted by Kogami's oldest adversary Makishima, Sherlock must rely on the support of the MWPSB before he can return to Britain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Forgettable Day

**Author's Note:**

> A (somewhat half-hearted) attempt at a series. Consider this work an extension of the 'verse established in Partly Cloudy.
> 
> Edit: I've just revised the wording for the nth time as I've noticed more errors. Sorry for the inconvenience.

On a particularly bad day, the arrangement between Sherlock and Akane pitched to an abrupt halt with the discovery of plastinated eyeballs on a plate in the microwave. To put it frankly, there had been a lot of screaming of the word psychopath and all its synonyms, stolen from a thesaurus and flung around as flying projectiles which smashed against Sherlock's walled in expression.

Apparently, he was now a suspect in a murder case and needless to say the discovery of body parts in the fridge and (spare) bathtub was a horrifying prospect for Inspector Four-eyes and his one-time sidekick Kogami.

This charge was laid on top of the already magnificent tide of theft and the possession of an illegal firearm which he'd been firing daily at the yellow smiley painted into the wall – a now permanent fixture thanks to the purchase of yellow acrylic shipped with the aid of blushing Akane as an introductory present.

'In the interests of diplomacy, this needs to stop Sherlock.' That was a cross Mycroft, who'd also been shipped nine thousand miles to manage his recalcitrant younger sibling. The sibling in question was making a show of resisting standard bureaucratic procedure and was lying on a sofa, limbs dangling with infuriating ease.

Wearing a bathrobe, of all things, as if to further spite diplomatic relations between Japan and Britain.

Ginoza – better known as Inspector Four-eyes– adjusted his ever present glasses. 'If these sociopathic tendencies continue, it would be best, I think, if your younger brother was removed from society and properly rehabilitated.'

There was no reply from Sherlock who did not deign to speak in the face of such undignified idiocy. The protracted silence continued until Sherlock decided that he was sick of their faces and rolled over and buried his gaze into the sofa which he discerned had suffered minor wear and tear from a female who'd enjoyed lipstick and the companionship of a loyal greyhound.

Ginoza caved and left the room.

'What excuse do you have this time?' Mycroft sighed once the sound of stomping feet had ceased. 'In the interest of resolving this period of rebelliousness before you are executed.'

Sherlock finally stirred, reinvigorated by his absence. He inched like a caterpillar until his feet hit the floor. 'Oh. So you're nosing around in my affairs again, right?' The sarcasm bounced around the room. 'Though I believe you'll manage some divine intervention before my scheduled death. A morass of red tape, maybe, or a face removed here and there and shipped to an abandoned warehouse for laughs. Oh, the joy.'

The suave smile had become forced. 'Sometimes, I prefer that ridiculous comatose act you put on for Inspector Ginoza.'

'I'm not dealing with Moran. That's your case, not mine.' Sherlock growled and flicked one finger at the window.

'Sherlock!'

'I don't care about that stupid diplomat, Mycroft. Not now. I'm busy.' Sherlock picked up a sliver of loose thread and tossed it into the corner and fell back into the sofa.

'Busy sleeping you mean. How can I entrust you with a case dear brother when you're busy sleeping on it.' Mycroft looked at Sherlock's mess with a quiet distaste and moved some of it to the bookshelf. 'But luckily, I made provisions.'

'Oh, do entertain me.' Sherlock looked up, awaiting more boredom and the temptation of deadpanned retorts. But his expression froze in place on his face when he tried and failed to reboot his good mood with the appearance of a face in the doorway.

'This is my associate, Shogo Makishima.' Mycroft said, introducing the white-haired sociopath who was simpering, perfectly aware that he had interrupted a moment of sibling rivalry. At that precise moment, the pillow landed squarely on the mastermind's head, a moment which Sherlock marked down as a temporary victory.

'Get out!' He commanded. He descended from the sofa, unhooking his long legs and intending to evacuate both of his unwelcome visitors from his throne room. 'You let that bloody psychopath in here, Mycroft! What on earth am I going to tell Inspector Tsunemori!'

Apparently, Mycroft had finally managed to elicit a response. His crafty eyes lit up. 'Well then dear brother, when you refuse to solve cases, eat or drink and generally mope because Doctor Watson thinks you are dead, when better a time than this to meet a new friend with whom you are going to work with for six months on a case?'

'And who are you calling a psychopath when it is only your Crime Coefficient off the scale here, Consulting Detective?' Makishima spoke plainly, but obviously, like Sherlock, he was just dying to rid himself of two irritations with one stone. By society's standards, the man was attractive and approximately thirty years of age with a slender build and a cultured Japanese intonation. Native speaker. Sherlock observed him and the man stared back at him for the space of a few seconds, engaged in a silent battle of wills.

There were flecks of white paint arranged artistically around the man's white wing collar and the fraction of pallor on the man's feature contrived to resemble the sunlight deprived features of someone who'd spent multiple weeks indoors.

This would be tedious. Sherlock judged him and sighed. The boring man had won and without even raising a hand.

'I dearly enjoy a good game once in a while,' The sociopath said conversationally. 'Particularly with a worthy adversary of your reputation.' He inclined his head and Sherlock failed to offer the same courtesy. Instead, Sherlock lifted one hand to brush his hair out of his eyes and unsurprisingly Makishima did the same, copying him like a demented mirror image.

A poorly concealed irritation was creeping onto Sherlock's features. 'Why is he not in solitary confinement?' He snapped at his brother. 'Isn't that the usual fate of criminals spotted a week ago cutting open a girl's throat with a knife, instead of cozying up in the heart of the CID discussing the weather?'

Mycroft let out a drawn out sigh from his seat, umbrella resting next to his legs. 'In Makishima's case... there are, ah certain complications.'

Wonderful. The other man's smile expanded an inch, but he said nothing. Sherlock thought of asking for the details of the Cymatic Scan but discarded the thought in the same instant.

'Psycho pass troubles,' he surmised swiftly instead. 'You can't lock up individuals with a crime coefficient of zero.' He drawled, deliberately using the plural. The two people included in his gaze simultaneously frowned.

'I'm not a criminal.' They said in a scary unison.

'Well,' Mycroft amended, mopping his brow 'The British Government does need people to make difficult decisions without falling on their face and Mr Makishima here was only too willing to comply.'

'I'd love to hear the details about the interrogation. But firstly, tea?'

\---

Sherlock returned from the kitchen with a tray and three cups cautiously balanced while he opened the door an inch with one knee. Mycroft had evidently used the time well and there were two of his agents seated in the room, flanking Makishima as if he would attempt an escape in a moment's notice. But both Holmes siblings were perfectly aware that the reason why the mastermind was present was because he was where he wanted to be. Mycroft's hands and influence was mostly tied by a morass of red (duct) tape and Makishima knew it.

'Ah, Sherlock.' Mycroft deliberately took the cup closest to Sherlock's body and handed the porcelain cup furthest away from his brother's body to the Makishima who accepted it with a polite 'Thank you,' spoken in perfect English.

Which complemented the situation perfectly since everybody in the room was multilingual.

Mycroft opened his leather briefcase, flicking open the latches with a brief click. Makishima watched the movement hungrily. 'To business. The two of you may be wondering why I have reverted to the traditional use of paper, but the clientele in question wished for the utmost secrecy to be exercised. As you know, technology can be penetrated, dumped and hacked by amateurs with the right tools.'

Sherlock scowled and tented his fingers. Makishima's eyes were skirting the room again, roving the shelves of chemistry equipment which had invaded the living room table, wiping away the clutter of books mingled with technology with conical flasks and beakers containing every possible combination of chemical. The antique Bunsen burner, still on a blue flame, was still licking the air noisily, spluttering from time to time due to the impurities in the methane.

Nowadays, purity was difficult to find and nothing new or innovative rose from the dirt when Sibyl ruled the system.

'I only admire the work of a fellow artist.' The mastermind's smile couldn't have been more coy.

'Sebastian Moran was born in London 2140, the son of Augustus Moran who was formerly an ambassador, but later turned to drink and gambling. It was around this time that his latent criminality began to surface according to a professor. Moran was born into a life of poverty and in a desperate attempt to avoid his father's fate, he enrolled into the army where he rose in the ranks and became a Colonel. It was around this time that despite the regular hue checks and rotations in the British Army's ranks, his hue, usually a bright crimson, had begun to deteriorate. By the time the drone identified it, it had degenerated into a dark brown.'

'What are the values?' The mastermind had his arms crossed wearing a satisfied expression.

'Can we see a snapshot of the profile?' Sherlock snapped in a brittle tone.

His brother removed a laminated sheet which smelled of government funding. Ink, particularly coloured ink was expensive. 'Handle this carefully.' Mycroft warned his brother, 'It's a Munsell spectrograph.'

Therefore, expensive. But money could not buy evidence when it was missing. Sherlock reluctantly made some room on the sofa so the Makishima could see the chart without leaning over his shoulder. As satisfying as it was, that arrangement was impractical.

'FF1212 in August.' The mastermind said without being coaxed. Sherlock double checked the results before handwriting them into the scrapbook. 'At the time of check up, it was 641313.'

The trivial detail of the hue was instantly committed to memory by everyone present.

'Discounting the effect of trauma what activities did Moran participate in within the three month period?' So the tame act continued. Interesting.

Sherlock swiped another discrete glance at the sociopath who was suddenly intent on examining his fingernails. Perhaps he would be useful after all.

Makishima locked eyes and smiled the predatory smile of a cat which had located cream. The tea was untouched.

The hardcover book was elegantly snapped shut. 'The change in the Crime Coefficient was genetic.' Sherlock intoned shortly, not to be outdone. 'That little case can be closed.'

'After Moran was released, he made several visits to Japan. Around this time, his Hue peaked in vividity and clarity. It's unusual. Following that - '

'Isn't it rude to leave guests outside?' Makishima had interrupted. One of the secret service men had returned from the outside where they had been patrolling.

'This is a confidential-' Mycroft begun, annoyed at being interrupted, but Sherlock was already answering the door, making absolutely no effort to block the newest occupant of the room from the visitors. Mycroft sighed and contemplated pulling the plug on the operation. Then he clicked his fingers, summoning the two agents. 'I'm flying back to Britain in the morning. Ensure that Sherlock Holmes and his three accomplices get up to no more than the usual dose of mischief.'

'Sir, which accomplices?'

But Mycroft already had his umbrella tucked under his arm and was striding towards the open window, careful not to touch the panes with anything except with the end of his umbrella. 'Consider your pay bonus in effect from this minute, Chappel.' He shouted above the noise of the rotating helicopter blades.

'But sir,' the Agent protested.

'Leave the technicalities to Anthea. And do take the thumbs out of the oven a minimum of once every fortnight, the smell of rotting corpses is absolutely putrid. And Sherlock, judging by the state of these windows, you should be more than capable of handling a single criminal mastermind successfully.'

Mycroft stepped smartly over the ledge, grabbing the ladder, hair and clothes blowing wildly. Sherlock was too busy wrestling with the Fire Extinguisher to bid a farewell to his brother and address Akane's screaming, since the Bunsen burner had been upset by the wind and had ignited the table. She had obviously seen Makishima, who had stepped back to witness the spectacle, amused by Sherlock's dilemna and was in perfect time to view the mastermind's transformation into a snowstorm of chemical dry powder as the Detective purposefully triggered the nozzle of the extinguisher all over his new ally's (adversary's) expensive clothing.

Kogami's feet pounded as he arrived, alerted by the sound of Akane's voice. There was the distinct metaphoric sound of his jaw hitting the floor. His cigarette was long forgotten and had been accidentally crushed underfoot.

'What on Earth is going on here?' He shouted.


	2. The Memorial Day

As it happened, Sherlock ended up in solitary confinement in prison-issued pyjamas and distinctly furry shock-orange slippers. The drone traffic crunched past at a 10km/hr pace that Sherlock catalogued for the past 5 hours after he was finished with the criminally neglected _aralia cordata_ wilting of boredom in the corner.

He mourned the loss of his de facto laboratory.

The newly completed 4x4x4 Rubik's cube tumbled to the floor, joining its completed cousins as Sherlock stretched. Apparently Ginoza's superior was fond of them and had a whole batch of them plugged to Sherlock's cell after the interviewer had run out of the interview room with stress levels exceeding the regulation limit.

Well, it wasn't his fault. A new cube appeared in his palm the unsolved pile. His hands danced with quick flicks, solving the puzzle rapidly.

'Had a new case?' Anthea still hadn't looked up as she sidled up to the bars, fingers still busy composing messages.

There was the interesting matter of Mycroft's two lackeys to deal and boss to deal with. They had recently arrived with the fatal expressions of two men consigned to guard duty with no end in sight. The two men wore identical earpieces and sunglasses of people hired for brawn rather than brains, wearing shined shoes which reflected their surroundings.

'Only one, I solved it via text. Corpses found in a wax mausoleum by the attendant, fun stuff. The murderer was wearing genuine leather soles.' Sherlock brushed imaginary lint from his shirtsleeve, half in irritation. Mycroft's pings had literally multiplied like the plague since they contained a moderate quantity of spyware. Said spyware was currently engaging in a battle for supremacy over the quarantined Spam folder. Sherlock watched as a particularly tenacious program claimed victory by executing a flawless cartwheel routine which successfully persuaded its rivals to self-terminate. The battle ended with several sad beeps and a few drops of syntax shed by the corpses of the eviscerated programs.

'Thought so. I understand that the issue with the interviewer still hasn't been resolved.' She said with the tone of one who knew that multiple psychologists had run out of a room screaming. A simple interview conducted over the causes of the fire had deteriorated into several lengthy monologues confirming beyond a doubt that Sherlock could not maintain a normal conversation for more than two minutes without being a smart ass.

The first interviewer hadn't liked the explanation he offered for the conflagration. Like a line out of a trippy funeral dirge: 'The Bunsen Burner just happened to tip over by accident you know. If I acted earlier, I could have saved the table.'

'Hmpff.' Sherlock leaned back in his chair. 'Only the musings of several third-rate psychologists, both desperate to maintain their credibility and hired because of recent MWPSB budget cuts. I read one of their journals. An apt description of the EEG paradigm but I disagree with the control method.'

'Right, well my employer just wants you to know that –'

'Tell him thanks, but no thanks and that I'd prefer it if he learned some self control particularly where the giving-the-master-criminal-of-the-week-my-entire-life's-story-syndrome is concerned. If you could. That is.'

'Any other requests?'

But Sherlock's eyes were now on a safari, prowling the digital jungle of his Comm. 'Once you've done that, please remove my laptop – the one on the living room table on top of the cell culture. My newest flatmate has a tendency to wander where he shouldn't and is currently attempting to gain unauthorised access to my laptop as we speak if the retinal imaging is anything to go by. Also, please move the bug in the freezer because as interesting as the results of yesterday's outage are, my intention is not to monitor the ice cream as it thaws.'

'Acknowledged.' Her hand was at half mast in a gesture of respect and she departed as Sherlock was pinged again. He scrolled the message with the pad of his thumb and noted that his second rescue party had appeared, delayed slightly by an unanticipated breakdown of the lift.

\---

Sherlock had ulterior motives, of course. His lower body was draped over the bed and his eyes were examining the impact of post-modernism on the architecture of the low-lying ceiling. Some when, the walls had acquired half a fingerprint. He could still see the fine imprint of gunpowder colouring the whorls of the pattern. Anger, frustration, disbelief? 

Peace, resignation, apathy?

His mind sought again the comfort of the Moran case, the room with the smashed glass windows covered with plastic police tape and the newspaper photographs he had stapled over the mantle-piece. There were thousands of pieces of evidence, but he navigated the memory palace with effortless ease. The address was pinned to the board, a scrap of yellowed paper. 100-8993.

Akane walked in. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, head still cushioned by the compact pillow and his fingertips were still pressed together.

'Considering the fact that your skull is still resting on your vertebrae, Makishima has evidently decided to defer your murder by a minimum of a week, giving us ample time to solve the case before your gruesome death.' Sherlock intoned with the usual deadpan he reserved for trivial facts, before she could say a word. 'Have the two of you considered dating? It would potentially extend your lifespan by up to a month.'

She was visibly offended. People tending towards irritation were less cautious and more willing to sprout information. She laid the flowers (two of them) down careful to prevent the anthers from spreading pollen to the white sheet and sat without asking for permission.

'I've had a while to think about what an utter bastard you are,' She began. 'But I came to offer an apology about my reaction about the eyeballs-' 

Sherlock's own moved a miniscule distance to the right. 

'But if you're expecting me to tremble in fear at the thought of death, you'll be disappointed. I'll bring Yuki to justice, no matter what you or anyone else thinks of me. I don't need your help.'

She picked up her bag. 

'Wait,' Sherlock called, with a slight breathlessness. 

Her pace slowed but didn't stop. Damn Sherlock.

'Wait.' This time he caught her elbow and gently levered her back. 'I'm sorry.' He smiled gently and his eyes were clearing up in the slightly-too-sharp look that informed her that indicated that she had something he wanted. 'Perhaps I spoke thoughtlessly. Thank you for the flowers.' He lingered. Was it all a bloody game? He could change personalities at the drop of a coin. 'I see the way that Kogami looks at you. It's because you're brave.'

'What do you want?' She snapped. 'Spit it out.'

His face flicked into a perfect approximation of a abashed expression and then smoothed into an emotionally neutral expression. 'So that's the way it is.' Litmus testing was finished and he'd come up with Mycroft negative. 'There are denatured proteins in the plastinated specimen. The tertiary structure of the proteins indicate the use of high temperatures to achieve the change. There are three sites in the city where such a high heat could have been generated and stored.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

Sherlock's expression danced faintly and turned his head down slightly towards hers. 'Your boyfriend is interested in Sasayama's fate. Maybe you can help him swallow his pride.' The words were positioned to grate her own ego, but she didn't flinch. 'I hate to see other people wade knee deep in nightmares.' He lifted his hand and she wondered if he was a little lost. 

John Watson, her memory said. Psychosomatic limp and PTSD was underlined with elegant red biro twice. She wondered if the soldier was still seeing a therapist. 

'So we're done playing games?' Shuusei was still waiting outside the cell, mouth twitching ever so slightly. He had his arm crossed across his front, leaning idly on the wall. 'We've got the clearance for your release, Mr Holmes.' He waved the appropriate documentation.

The flowers were forgotten.


End file.
